Assassin's creed : Black flag - Bowden Oliver - Страница 71
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But alive.
From above I heard Wilson cursing. I snatched a second pistol from my belt and squinted through the gaps in the boards above me, seeing the light flicker and squeezing off a shot. There came another scream from the gantry, then a crash as he made his way into the offices.
I dragged myself to my feet. The pain from my wound was intense, and the older wound in my flank flared up too, making me limp as I made it to the steps of the gantry and climbed up in pursuit of Wilson. I came crashing through the office, where I found an open back-door leading to steps, and at the top I caught my breath and leaned on the rail for support as I peered over the warehouses.
No sign. Just the distant clattering of ships at rest and the squawk of the gulls. I concentrated, using the Sense, and I heard something. But not Wilson. What I heard was the sound of marching feet as they approached the port area.
They were coming. The soldiers were coming.
I cursed and limped back inside to check on Rose. She would be okay. Now I ran back to follow a trail of blood left by Wilson.
SEVENTY-ONE
You were safe in my cabin. Asleep, so I’m told, and you missed what happened next. For that I’m thankful.
I reached the harbour to find that Wilson had died on the way. His body lay at the bottom of the steps. He’d been going to a ship I recognized. One that when I’d last seen it was called the Caroline but had since been renamed, in honour of the woman Matthew Hague had gone on to marry. It was called the Charlotte.
Hague was in there. A man awaiting death though he didn’t know it yet. I could see poorly defined figures in the grey haze of the evening moving across the stern gunwale. Guards, but it didn’t matter. Nothing was going to stop me getting on board that ship.
If the guards had seen or heard Wilson fall, they probably thought he was a drunk. If they saw me squatting by his body, then they probably thought I was a drunk too. They didn’t care. Not yet.
I counted four of them as I raced along the harbour wall until I reached where the Jackdaw had not long docked. In between the two ships was a smaller sail-boat held by a line that I unwound and let go, giving the stern of the craft a shove to set it off before dashing back to my ship.
“Hanley,” I addressed the quartermaster.
“Yes, sir.”
“Prepare the guns.”
He’d been sitting with his feet up on the navigation table but dragged them off. “What? Why, sir? And bloody hell, sir, what’s up with you?”
“Musket ball in the shoulder.”
“Did you get the men you wanted?”
“Two of them.”
“I’ll fetch the doc . . .”
“Leave it, Hanley,” I growled. “It can wait. Look, there’s a vessel to our starboard, name of Charlotte. On it is the third man I seek. Ready the starboard guns and if my plans fail, blast her out of the water.”
I ran to the cabin door then stopped, screwing up my face in pain as I turned to him. “And, Hanley?”
“Yes, sir?” He had stood, his face a picture of worry.
“You’d better prepare the stern guns as well. Make sure the crew is armed. There are soldiers on the way.”
“Sir?”
I gave him an apologetic look.
“Just look sharp, Hanley. If all goes well, we’ll be out of this in moments.”
He didn’t look reassured. He looked even more worried. I gave him what I hoped was a confident smile, then swept a wedge from beneath the cabin door as I left.
The sail-boat had begun its drift out to sea. I heard a shout from the deck of the Charlotte as they spotted it. The laughter. Fools. They saw the joke, not the danger. I leapt overboard from the Jackdaw, planting my feet on the stone of the harbour, then raced the few yards to the stern of the Charlotte.
“It’s Wilson,” I shouted in my best approximation of the dead enforcer as I clambered up the ladder. A face appeared over the gunwale to greet me and I planted my fist in it, dragged him over the rail and hurled him to the stone below. His screams alerted a second man who came running to what he assumed was the scene of an accident—until he saw me, and the blade, which gleamed in the moonlight before I swept it back-handed across his throat.
Ignoring the last two sentries, I ran up the deck towards the captain’s cabin, peered through the window and was treated to the sight of Matthew Hague, an older and worried Matthew Hague by the looks of things, standing away from a table. With him was his draughtsman.
With a glance to see the two sentries lumbering up the deck towards me, I dragged open the door of the cabin.
“You,” I said to the draughtsman.
Hague dropped a goblet he’d been holding. They both goggled at me.
I risked another glance back at the sentries. I cursed, slammed the cabin door shut, wedged it and turned to meet the two guards.
They could have escaped, I told myself as they died. It was their choice to fight me. To my port the hatches of the Jackdaw’s gun-deck were opening and the muzzles of guns appeared. Good lads. I saw men on deck brandishing muskets and swords. Somebody shouted, “You need a hand, Cap’n?”
No, I didn’t. I turned back to the cabin door, pulled the wedge free and snatched open the door. “Right, last chance,” I ordered the draughtsman, who practically threw himself at me.
“Archer,” wailed Hague, but neither of us were listening as I hauled Archer out of the cabin and jammed it shut behind him, Hague imprisoned now.
“Get off the ship,” I barked at Archer, who needed no further invitation, scrabbling for the stern.
Now I could hear the marching feet of soldiers as they approached the harbour wall.
“Tar!” I appealed to my crew on the other deck. “Barrels of tar and quick about it.”
One was tossed to me from the Jackdaw and I attacked it, opened it, spread it by the door of the cabin.
“Please . . .” I could hear Hague from inside. He was thumping on the wedged-shut door. “Please . . .”
I was deaf to him. The marching was closer now And I heard the clatter of horse hooves, the rumble of cart wheels. I glanced to the harbour wall, expecting to see the tops of their bayonets as I emptied a second barrel of tar on the deck.
Would it be enough? It would have to do.
Now I saw them. The muskets of the soldiers as they appeared silhouetted along the top of the harbour wall. At the same time they saw me, pulled the muskets from their shoulders and took aim. By my side the crew of the Jackdaw did the same as I snatched up a torch and leapt to the rat-lines, climbing to a point where I could let go of the torch, dive off the rigging and escape the flames.
If the muskets didn’t get me first, that was.
Then came the command.
“Hold your fire!”
SEVENTY-TWO
The order came from a carriage that had pulled up on the harbour, its door opening before it even finished drawing to a halt.
Out skipped two men: one, dressed like a footman, who arranged steps for the second man, a tall, lean gentleman who wore smart clothes.
A third man appeared. He was a portly gentleman in a long white wig, frilled shirt and fine satin jacket and breeches. A man who looked as though he’d enjoyed many a lunch in his time, and many a glass of port and brandy to go with those many lunches.
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